[app] Ataraxion

[daringwaistcoats]

P L A Y E R   I N F O R M A T I O N
Your Name: Kit/Cygnus
OOC Journal: paraverbal; paraverbal
Under 18? If yes, what is your age?: No.
Email + IM: paraverbal
Characters Played at Ataraxion: None.

C H A R A C T E R   I N F O R M A T I O N
Name: (Ambrose) Bahorel.
Canon: Les Misérables by Victor Hugo (novel, 1862).
Original or Alternate Universe: Original.
Canon Point: 05 June 1832, upon his death, stabbed by a National Guard bayonet upon the barricade.
Number: 062 or RNG. ASSIGNED - 021 » 062.


Setting:

• Les Misérables Wiki page


• A quick and dirty historical backdrop of Les Misérables


• Student protests of June 1820 (see also: Nicolas Lallemand and the double vote)


• June Rebellion/Paris Uprising of 1832

History:

As has been the trend for the majority of the students at the barricades, Hugo does not focus too heavily on Bahorel's life story. What we do know of him, however, is that he hailed from peasant parents of the South who were notably not bourgeois/middle class ("'that is the reason they are intelligent,'" he says of them) and was, more or less, a student in Paris like the rest.

Bahorel is described as having studied law for eleven years, but that he very rarely -- if at all -- attended classes and often mocked the school porter and the dean, as well as the lectures (of which he composed ballads) and professors (of whom he made caricatures), themselves. When he did chance past the law school, he would even go so far as to make an effort to conceal and/or disassociate himself from it: "he buttoned up his frock-coat [...] and took hygienic precautions." Hugo jokes that Bahorel's motto was "'Never a lawyer!'" and that the accompanying coat of arms would depict that of the biretta in a nightstand, indicating that although he had the necessary education for the courts and certainly nosed about at law, he left said experience stowed away in academic delinquency and instead sauntered through Paris like a capricious wind.

As such, Bahorel wasted a "tolerably large allowance" of three thousand francs a year "in doing nothing."

Yet he did not do purely nothing during his time in Paris. Aside from whatever occupation provided him his pension, Bahorel was fairly active in the revolutionary sphere. June 1820 saw him rallying at and in the bloody aftermath of the funeral of Nicolas Lallemand, a fellow law student who had been killed during a student protest against new voting laws which would have provided a Royalist advantage in the Chamber of Deputies. The wave of unrest that rippled across the student and working classes upon Lallemand's death had the profound effect of providing a wake-up call within the minds of the student populace -- perhaps even in Bahorel. This set the scene for the rising number of politically inclined youth groups that sprung up across the city in subsequent years.

Enter Les Amis de l'ABC: the Friends of the ABC, or the Abaissés ("the abased; the lowly"), whose goal in name was the education of children, whose true cause was to see to the elevation of man from the depths of injustice. As Bahorel is described as "a man of caprice [and] was scattered over numerous cafes," it was not surprising that he would one day fall across this small group led by the passionate Enjolras and the practical Combeferre, though why he decided to stay loyal to them is never explicitly stated. Regardless of the reason, he quickly filled the role of liaison between the embryonic coterie of Les Amis and those student groups that were still in the courting stage of revolution's romance. In this way, Bahorel helped to establish the future of a freer France.

By the early 1830s, General Jean Maximilien Lamarque had already become a crowd favourite and household name amongst the lower classes. Lamarque had fought for opinions that resonated within the French peoples, namely the defense of constitutional liberties being contested in Poland and Italy at the time, as well as in their own country under Louis Philippe's constitutional monarchy. A military hero from the Napoleonic Wars, Lamarque's voice carried much further than those of the masses, so when cholera began to seize his life, fear for the future traveled like wildfire.

As news of Lamarque's illness reached the ears of the people, Enjolras and the others found their catalyst to call the people of France to arms at last. Les Amis sought to capture that fear and anger and funnel it into something more productive -- an uprising against the injustice the citizens of France had been subjected to for decades -- and nearly succeeded. As they commandeered Lamarque's funeral procession on 05 June 1832 and led the first battalion of insurgents to establish barricades, it seemed France was finally ready to rise and join them the next morning.

However, it does not take long for Enjolras and the others to realize that they are alone in the fight, that the people of France were still too afraid to fight for their rights. Bahorel never comes to this conclusion, as he does not last the night.

As the National Guard advances upon the barricade, Bahorel sacrifices himself to keep them at bay, only managing to fell one enemy before a bayonet pierces straight through and kills him.

He is the first -- and most certainly not the last -- of Les Amis to die.


Personality:

Assuming that we are introduced to Bahorel nearer to the advent of Les Amis's downfall in 1832, tracking back eleven or so years of his "studying" law would bring the reader to the early 1820s -- around the time of his participation in the riots surrounding Lallemand's death. This tidbit of information is the first to be divulged about Bahorel and his past (and in its own paragraph) before proceeding to describe his actual character, and as such, should be closely examined prior to this description, as well.

The events of June 1820 may have been cataclysmic to Bahorel's approach on law school (which he had likely just begun or was about to begin) in such a way that encouraged him to shy away from it as if it were something dirty, to be considered a student for all of a decade and one with no desire to ever become a man of law. Whether or not he had been acquainted intimately with Lallemand directly would not have mattered, as the death of anyone in a shared field, be it major or age or opinion or other such demographic, becomes a stark brand upon as impressionable minds as those of young scholars new to the hustle and bustle of Parisian city life.

As a result, considering the nature of and reason for the outbreak which took Lallemand's life, Bahorel may have been one of those students in whom a realization that something must be done about France's socioeconomic grievances that clearly was not getting done by way of the government -- and least of all in the classroom. Passing by the law school must thus invoke in him a passionate distaste for the flawed nature of academia and its uselessness in actually enacting progress, and instead further propel him directly into the fray in the streets amongst the student populace of similar discontent. It is perhaps for this reason that the man of no habits is so enamoured by Enjolras and his fellow Amis and remains strong and true as one of the group's primary members.

With such in mind, one may now better understand the motivations and personality of one Bahorel.

Bahorel is described as being brave and both of good humour and of bad company, the type to have one vice and yet also match it with a complementary virtue: he is extravagant with money but counters it with generosity, is talkative yet eloquent, is insolent in his boldness. As such, he is made of the best parts of the devil ("pâte de diable") and is just as contentious with a knack for "indulg[ing] in the sort of words that break everything."

That he "had daring waistcoats and scarlet opinions" is perhaps the best manner in which to summarize him: Bahorel is brash in appearance and demeanour and vocal when it comes to his republican/leftist views. A whirlwind of a man, he neither minds where he treads nor how lightly -- especially when offended. Combeferre attempts to incite logic in him when he denounces the bourgeois' right to tragedy, while Enjolras appeals with reason when he lashes out against the injustice of a poster that dares to permit the eating of eggs (for one should be allowed to eat eggs whenever it pleases him!). However, Bahorel holds his own opinions close and simply grins cheekily in return, never once losing stride or stance, as unbridled as before: "'Each one in his own fashion,'" he retorts with a laugh. He "lov[ed] nothing so much as a quarrel, unless it were an uprising; and nothing so much as an uprising, unless it were a revolution; always ready to smash a window-pane, then to tear up the pavement, then to demolish a government, just to see the effect of it."

In lieu of Hugo's false motto and coat of arms, a truer insignia would be that of a fist and the words "Do, for words will only get one so far."

Yet it would be unfair to claim that Bahorel is purely reckless or has no restraint at all, for he is certainly not a brute. When it comes down to it, he is a thinker in addition to a fighter; Hugo even goes so far as to state explicitly that he "had a penetrating mind [more] than appeared to view." He stops his aggressive stance, despite his comfort in such a state, in the midst of a heated argument to listen as part of a stalwart group of republicans to Marius's tirade on the greatness of Napoleon Bonaparte, then leaves as peaceably as the rest of them. With the other Amis, he is frank and straightforward, but certainly interested in their daily goings on, as well. Of love, he is neither surprised by the late-night absence of Courfeyrac's typically chaste friend, nor is he hesitant in his advice to Joly on how best to impress his mistress -- with leather pants, of course! -- or of his own successes in the contract he holds with his own laughing mistress.

In Enjolras's eyes, his lieutenants are each of their own strengths; for Bahorel, he calls on his laughter, his smile, as the contributing factor to the spark of fire he hopes to spread across to the citizens of France. This descriptor immediately follows Feuilly's enthusiasm and Courfeyrac's verve, both of which could be seen as aspects of what effect laughter could incite upon the populace. However, it is not unless one compares it to the next Ami's that elucidates the secret behind this particular strength: Jean Prouvaire's melancholy. Bahorel's laughter is seen as the unrestrained power of his conviviality and brazen mockery of that which he deems perfunctory, checked only by Jean Prouvaire's sobering and grounding nature.

It must now be mentioned that there are multiple sources which point toward real-life inspirations for Bahorel's character: Pétrus Borel is one of them, at the very least in name, and the other Théophile Gautier, in his choice of scarlet vests. At least one source also notes that Bahorel's eleven years as a student and his surly nature is reminiscent of Jehan Frollo of Hugo's Notre-Dame de Paris (1831). As such, any questions that have not possibly been presented in canon will refer to these historical figures for advice, as with the number of Bahorel's siblings, or the particular regions of Paris in which he has lived.

In addition, an analysis of earlier drafts of the novel determines that both Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire had not been written in until at least the fourth or fifth version, perhaps not until after Hugo's continued and growing association with Borel, Gautier, and Jean Prouvaire's alleged inspiration, Gérard de Nerval. Gautier and Nerval were said to be very close friends, and Borel also has been closely associated with both during his lifetime. As the two fictional characters are depicted as arriving together at the barricades, as well as being foiled with one another much in the same ways that the close camaraderie of Enjolras and Combeferre and the singular unit of Bossuet and Joly and the dysfunctional companionship of Courfeyrac and Marius, among others, are depicted, it will be assumed that the two are well-acquainted as closer friends than they are with the other Amis. However, this will not change the fact that a very solid bond will still be present between Bahorel and the other Amis as can only be forged amongst those who stand side by side on the front lines of a battlefield.


Abilities, Weaknesses and Power Limitations:

All things said and done, Bahorel is a normal human being. He is perhaps a bit stronger, better reflexed, and well-built than the average person due to his brawling tendencies but is otherwise fairly squishy when it comes to sharp objects and bullets. In addition, it can be assumed that he has a fairly solid grasp of Latin and French law (at least that which precedes the mid-1800s) considering his endless years in academia, though he likely does not put much focus on either skill.


Inventory:

• one (1) unloaded rifle, no ammunition or powder to speak of


• one (1) scarlet waistcoat


• one (1) set of dirtied clothing, including a bloodied shirt with a single bayonet wound


• one (1) set of boots

Appearance:


Ioan Gruffudd will be his PB for the purposes of this game.

Hugo does not describe Bahorel's physical appearance at all, but as he has pointed out distinct features of those characters who have them (e.g., Enjolras, Grantaire, Marius, and even the balding Bossuet), it can be safely assumed that he is neither terribly gorgeous nor terribly monstrous, if at all especially distinguishable from the rest beyond his personality traits.

As such, we can take the liberty of describing him as of average to larger build, perhaps even on the scale of fairly muscular to better intimidate in his daringly scarlet waistcoats. Being that he is likely one of the older Amis and well-versed in battle in ways that they are not, his face would be slightly more squared and staunch, if still with the occasional youthful grin of one defying life's rules with reckless abandon. A strong nose and high brow to indicate his mental strength, laughing eyes that flip quickly to dangerous brooding, and a carriage that implies that he is not afraid to -- forgive the French -- fuck shit up.


Age: Considering how long he has been "studying" law in Paris, it may be assumed that this makes him quite a bit older than the rest of the group. As such, I would say he is in his late twenties, perhaps even in his early thirties, but will take the liberty of making him a solid 30.


AU Clarification: N/A.


S A M P L E S
Log Sample:

Bahorel's eyes snapped open. Dark all around, and a clear blue liquid just barely starting to drain around him. His throat constricted around something hard, something foreign, but just as he regained sensation enough to lift his arms, the tubular object had already retracted itself of its own free will and he was unceremoniously brought to his knees on hard... non-wooden floors?

If only by instinct, Bahorel ignored the cognitive dissonance at the unrecognizable material shimmering beneath him and instead darted semi-glazed eyes from one corner of what seemed to be a room to the next -- if those could even be called corners -- to scan for the wounded, friends, exits; guards, enemies, weapons. His vision was blurred somewhat, his head throbbed softly, and his limbs ached as if from too much sleep.

Sleep. Had all been but a dream?

A second more and the barricade would have been taken. Bahorel had moved before the thought had even processed -- they would not be allowed to cross. He remembered raising his rifle as he leapt upon the limestone pearl with which he had carefully decorated the leftmost edge of his barricade's collarbone, thrusting a bullet straight through the first municipal guard's chest, a shot made point blank. A sharp pain had blossomed in his own bosom, just as Courfeyrac's voice called "À moi!" and then--

His fingers swiftly lifted to his skin as if seeking the touch of a loved one just found, but came away clean, came upon a smooth, firm surface. He noticed ink on the inner part of his lifted arm -- a number, clean, foreign in its cubic design, as though one knew not of the concept of the sloping curve.

There was a long moment of silence.

A snort echoed through the room.

It was Bahorel, alone.

Had he been one of the orators of old with more gusto than a scrawling pen, there would be bewildering gesticulations and fanciful cries of the halls of an ancient civilization, somehow starker than the ancient tales, but perhaps as magnificent in its glowing residues, its majestic hall, its vast ... emptiness. No wingéd creatures, no bearded wisemen, no carousing demigods.

Just emptiness.

After another moment of solemn contemplation, twisted corners unfolded from Bahorel's lips into a gentler curl. It was just as well; the emptiness meant that the rest were still at war, while he was at peace. Unfair, perhaps, for what will those young boys do without his laughing fists by their side? They really were so very young...

But the municipal guard. Perhaps it meant nothing that he was presently in the company of none but himself. Perhaps the others were also here. Perhaps their beautiful barricade had fallen at witnessing his own demise.

Bahorel quickly stood, if still on unsure footing, and took a more solid glance around. There was an opening, unprotected, and it would be a place to start.

He only slipped once as he caught onto the rhythm of his yet unfamiliar gait.

"Disobedience may be your virtue, but pray tell what heroes shudder at the sight of an ungainly fawn?" he growled down at his ankles.

At this utterance, Bahorel's expression softened minutely. The poet would find this whole scene fascinating, if morbidly so, as was in his queer nature. Still, Bahorel would admit that he had been right on the count of the coffer traversed through water, though as of yet he had seen no coins of passage to speak of. Perhaps the golden gates lay beyond this plain opening toward which he advanced; perhaps there would be a pool through which to view the streets of Paris bedecked in its celebratory robes, a book through which to pry into the future.

But there were only metal boxes, each with a number etched into its face. It cannot be said whether or not Bahorel was disappointed. He glanced down at his forearm again and scanned the ominous row of unforgiving steel for its match. He eyed the box and gave it an experimental tug; it did not budge.

While crouched over the strange latching mechanism, he frowned. Perhaps the rest would join him there, one by one and over the years; surely they had used his death as a diversion somehow.

There it went, with a smooth snick't-clang. Bahorel gave an involuntary grimace at the amount of blood that had apparently spilled from his chest.

But perhaps they would arrive all at once and in droves. They hadn't expected all that firepower, and most of them had never fired such power themselves before that night.

His eyes caught a glimpse of something reflective in the dark box.

Surely only that poet would be able to provide the right words to beautify such a wretched feeling as clenched his gut at the thought.

He picked it up and eyed it curiously.

Surely Enjolras had stoked the fires white-hot and kept them burning through the night.

An accidental shift between hands and it hummed aloud at him; Bahorel nearly dropped it as it spoke.

Surely the people had risen with the dawn.

Surely France had taken back what was its right.

Surely--

But that thought faltered, for what in the name of all things sacred was a "blue lift"?


Comms Sample:

[ Skepticism: that is what one reads clearly in the singular dark nostril hole that fills the screen. There is a shuffle as the device is flipped over quickly and rotated first one way, then the other, the screen landing upon a wet floor and bared knees -- luckily nothing higher than a glimpse of a man's thigh. ]

Hm.

[ The camera faces up again, to still-dampened locks that clung to a strong nape of neck, flirted at an ear. This time, it seems the man has actually noticed his own reflection, and pulls the object up to his face. ]

A speaking mirror, then?

[ He squints. ]

"Connected and Transmitting..."?

[ Again with the knees, and just as swiftly, the blinding overhead light. He mumbles. ]

Hercle, indeed.

[ The screen is quickly greeted with the inside of a locker, the sound of metal greeting its microphone cheerily, and a tuneless ditty while an arm appears intermittently and another piece of sleek, black uniform disappears. Soon, words join in an equally singsong manner. ]

"What kind of a dream is it," said Óðinn,
in which just before daybreak,
I thought I cleared Valhǫll,
for coming of slain men?
I waked the Einherjar,
bade valkyries rise up,
to strew the bench,
and scour the beakers,
wine to carry--

[ A slam of metal on metal and then pitch black. As footsteps slowly fade away, so, too, do the following words: ]

as for a king's coming,
here to me I expect
heroes' coming from the world,
certain great ones,
so glad is my heart.

[ And then ... nothing once more. ]